


Veracity

by Zatnikatel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zatnikatel/pseuds/Zatnikatel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Spoilers</b> S8, 8.07<br/><b>Wordcount</b> 1,790</p>
    </blockquote>





	Veracity

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers** S8, 8.07  
>  **Wordcount** 1,790

In Purgatory Dean never touches Cas after that one time when he pulls him in and thinks for a second that he might never let go of his friend. But he remembers that heartbeat space when he wrapped himself around Cas and Cas leaned into him, his whole frame gone soft and pliant in the circle of Dean's arms even if he didn't put his own hands up and rest them on Dean the way Dean did to him.

Dean never touches Cas again until the moment when he can feel his skin sliding against Cas's, sliding because Cas is slipping away again even though Dean is digging his fingernails into the flesh of Cas's wrist, and he can feel the burning scrape of Cas doing the same to him.

In a motel bathroom in Millinocket, Dean stares at himself in the mirror and he doesn't know if he can see the _thing_ inside him staring back or not, even if he can feel it boiling up and down his arm like acid in his circulation. He doesn't know if it can hear him either, but even so, he tells it, "If this works, don't ever talk to me about him."

He showers off the filth of Purgatory and the dirt of the Hundred-Mile Wilderness he hiked through after he was spat out. The water is so hot it burns him, but afterwards there is still bloody skin under his fingernails. He scrubs his fingertips raw, chews the nails away so he can clean right down to the skin underneath, runs the tip of his Bowie along the tiny stripe of exposed nailbed until it's puffy and tender.

In Rufus Turner's cabin, he tells his brother that Cas let go, and he thinks that's how it happened, wants to believe the resignation on his friend's face as he paddled at thin air was because the eye of the needle was too small. But he sees Cas's eyes, huge and stark with terror and _don't leave me, Dean_ , and sees that fraction of time when Cas _realized_. And he doesn't know what Cas realized.

"Why the fuck did you let go?" Dean blurts out into the harsh silence that settles on the room the second Sam closes the door behind him.

"Why?" he demands as he pushes up from off of the bed and takes a few steps closer. "Why? Why did you let go? What the fuck was that?"

Cas is as impassive as he ever was, hands loose at his sides, eyes steady and just as mournful and knowing as they've always been when he looks into Dean. "Are you alright, Dean?" he asks softly.

"Answer the fucking question."

Dean is right up there now, but Cas is holding his ground, his stare unblinking even as Dean hears his voice crack and turn hoarse.

"Why did you let go? Why?" he whispers as he leans in and closes his own eyes, presses his cheek against Cas's skin, warm and clean, peach-fuzz back to its customary blue-black stubble. "Why?" he mouths against Cas's throat while Cas's pulse flutters under his lips, and "Why?" he breathes against Cas's mouth as it opens under his own, wet, and willing, and wanting. "I need you," Dean says against Cas's tongue, as he walks his friend back to the wall. "I meant that."

There is the rustle of fabric shed, the pop and skitter of shirt buttons, the press of flat, hard skin, hands on Dean's back _finally_ , and the diligent brush of lips and curl of tongue. There is a pale pink nipple that swells between Dean's teeth and the sound and shudder Cas makes as the heel of Dean's hand rubs at the bulge in his pants.

"I don't know what I'm doing." Dean bites the words into the ridge of bone that marks the top of Cas's hip while his fingers work at the buckle of Cas's belt. "I don't know where any of this came from."

"What _we're_ doing."

Dean looks up and Cas is staring down, his eyes hazy, his expression amazed even if his voice isn't hesitant and his own fingers are deft as they push Dean's away, pulling the belt open and unzipping his fly. He's rock hard when Dean pulls him out, his cock aggressive as it nudges against Dean's chin, the head swelling up blood-red from a fold of uncut foreskin that feels soft under Dean's fingertips, as soft as the breathy _oh_ Cas sighs out when Dean licks across the crown.

Cas is full and heavy on Dean's tongue, the scent of him musky, the taste of those first drops that bead out of him as bitter as warm beer. The muscle of his thigh tenses and shakes under Dean's free hand, and his fingers clutch convulsively at the nape of Dean's neck as Dean swallows him in deep, as far as the coarse hair at his crotch, so far it makes Dean's eyes water as he fights his gag reflex. It's slick, messy, the smack of Dean's lips as he kisses and suckles is obscene, and he wants so much, wants it all, wants the way his teeth rub and pull at the loose skin of Cas's balls, wants that feeling of smoothness against the pads of his fingertips as they spread saliva up into the crease that leads them all the way to Cas's rim and the muscle that hardly resists as Dean prods his way into heat and tightness, along to a strangled cry he barely registers because Cas is locking up, thrusting hard, flooding warmth into Dean's mouth, and Dean can slake his thirst at last.

Cas is leaning back against the wall when Dean casts his eyes up, his mouth slack and his ribs rising and falling as he pants, and it makes Dean's dick push painfully at the denim of his jeans. He still doesn't understand any of this, has no real idea how they came to be in this moment, but he wants to be in it, maybe more than anything he has ever wanted.

"Cas," he whispers as he pushes up, and Cas nods without opening his eyes.

"The bed," he says as he lurches forward, a hand grasping for his pants to hold them up as he shepherds Dean over there and sits him down.

Cas lets his pants go so they puddle at his ankles, toes off his boots and shrugs off his shirt. He leans to pull at the cotton of Dean's tee as if he undresses Dean every day of his life, and Dean reaches up and lets Cas pull it off over his head, unzips himself and shimmies his jeans and boxers off as if this is their nightly routine. His dick is pointing right at Cas, and Cas gives it a clinical look, as if he's analyzing the precise arrangement of skin over muscle and veins, measuring length, evaluating girth.

Dean feels his cheeks flush hot under his friend's examination, feels suddenly exposed and self-conscious in a way he never has before. "Are you just going to look at it?" he manages, and Cas jumps a little.

"I'm not sure what to do," he says. "I mean – I know what to do. But – I'm not sure what to _do_."

His brow is furrowed in a thoughtful frown, he's sucking in his bottom lip, and he's still wearing his tie. In that moment he's as human as Dean has ever seen him look, and Dean grins despite himself, finds he's reaching out for the strip of navy-blue fabric and pulling Cas towards him so he can lick his way back into Cas's mouth. "Do you taste yourself on me?" he breathes. "You came in my mouth. Do you taste your come on me? Did you like how it felt to be in my mouth, to feel me drinking you?"

Cas moans against his lips and he's getting the message alright, because his hands are firm on Dean's shoulders, and he's pushing Dean down onto the mattress. Dean is only too happy to fall back and give himself up to heated skin pressed all along him, to the moist tease of his friend's tongue along the line of his jaw, and the blunt nip of Cas's teeth down across his chest and belly. He grinds himself up into the crease at Cas's groin, his cock throbbing for release as Cas journeys down him, his mouth mapping and worshiping every inch of Dean; watches his friend's mop of dark hair as it recedes, grunts and thrusts through the clamp of Cas's fingers when they close around him at last.

Cas's lips are a soft, warm tingle just a fraction of a millimeter above the cap of Dean's cock, his eyes curious as he gazes at it. Looking down, his head propped on the pillow, Dean can see a fat pearl of creamy pre-come bubble up out of him, and the way Cas tilts his head and watches it as it oozes is either hot as hell or torture, Dean just can't work out which. But at last Cas swipes the pad of his thumb up and over the tip, gliding it through the liquid, and his touch might be careful but it sends a slow curl of lust meandering through Dean. Cas licks his lips, his eyes avid, and Dean feels another little tingle inside him as more fluid beads up and out.

The slap of Cas's tongue as it scoops up the droplet is like electricity. Lick, _again_ , lick, _lick_ , and Dean starts to fist handfuls of bedding because this is _drip-drip-drip_ , this is maddening, and he can feel the explosion building and expanding inside him as he gasps out the pain and pleasure of being held there on the cusp for however long he doesn't know before his insides pull into a tight knot and he groans out long and low as he crests and spills.

He cracks his eyes, and Cas's expression is rapt as he watches Dean's come trickle lazily down his fingers. He leans in, tongue snaking out to taste the foamy white trails, and _fuck_ it makes Dean cry out again, makes him flop back to revel in the feeling of being licked clean, before the bed creaks and settles, and Cas is lying up beside him, his eyes dark.

Cas puts his hand on Dean's cheek and Dean can see it all in his friend's gaze.

"I love you," Dean whispers. "Why did you let go?"

Cas smiles at him, soft, sorrowful and honest. "I didn't let go, Dean," he whispers.


End file.
